


Saints into the Sea

by Harpokrates



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Ficlets, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpokrates/pseuds/Harpokrates
Summary: Three conversations does not a romance make. A series of oneshots.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago and I just forgot to post it. Oops.

"Honestly, Anders, I'll be fine," Hawke held his mangled hands out in front of him, slowly dripping blood onto the sand.

Anders glared at him, lines of annoyance etched into his haggard face. Hawke grinned sheepishly, and spread his fingers in a placating manner.

"Stop moving your hands, Hawke," Anders fussed, holding his wrists steady. "I thought you were smarter than this. Not sure _why_ exactly, considering you've given me every reason to doubt you actually have a brain up there," he tapped a knuckle against Hawke's forehead, "are you sure it isn't just a lump of rock? You're stubborn enough for it."

"It was the siren call of treasure; I'm weak."

"The siren call of sticking your fingers in a trap more like." Anders grumbled. "I can't regrow a missing finger, you know."

"Ahh, I'm going to get enough of this once Bethany finds out. You can't just spare me for five minutes?"

Anders looked levelly at him. "No."

Hawke snorted. "Spoilsport."

"Yes, well, that is my hobby, alongside sedition and losing money to Isabela. There, you're done."

Hawke flexed his fingers experimentally. "That's amazing, Anders. You got rid of stiffness I didn't know I had."

"Oh?" Anders raised an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be dirty?"

"A lifetime of cracking my knuckles, I swear. I mean it, Anders," Hawke clapped a hand onto his shoulder, "thank you. You didn't need to come along."

Anders coughed slightly, and replied with an easy smile. "Well, lobbing fireballs at the bandit of the week is my _other_ hobby. Really, you're helping me."

"Good man. Oh, Fenris," Hawke caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and waved the elf over, "found anything?"

Anders' smile vanished. "Did you have to bring _him_?" He muttered, scowling.

"He wanted to come." Hawke waved off Anders' irritation. "Besides, isn't it good you're talking? Starting dialogue and all that?"

"Hawke," Fenris greeted, then sneered at Anders, "and abomination."

Anders made a rude gesture at Fenris and rolled his eyes at Hawke, then stomped off to help Bethany move bodies, and tie up the survivors.

"Fenris…"

"I don't like him, Hawke." Fenris snapped, then gritted his teeth and visibly forced his temper down. "A few trinkets and a note. Not the amulet."

"All this trouble over some jewelry," Hawke shook his head. "What did the note say?"

Fenris shoved the crumpled paper into his hand. Hawke shook his head and unfolded it.

"You know," he said, scanning it, "it never ceases to baffle me how many thugs in this city are literate. I used to make a good portion of my spare coin writing and reading letters. Couldn't survive on that here. It says they took everything to the docks. The amulet's probably already been shipped to Highever. Damn. Ah, what a waste of time."

"You don't want to check the docks?"

"We'll pass them heading back into Kirkwall, but chances are they've already launched. Bethany, Anders!" Hawke shouted.

"Coming!" Bethany crested the hill. "Anders got stuck on a particularly nasty broken arm. He's just behind me. It's pretty awful, I—" she squinted at him, "what happened to your hand?"

Hawke's eyes unconsciously flickered to the still blood soaked chest. The trap was quite clearly sprung, and there was a suspiciously familiar chunk of leather pinned in the mechanism. It very obviously matched the equally suspicious missing half of Hawke's glove.

"Hawke, _you_ —"

"Now, Bethany—"

"Oh, look," Fenris said, pointing to the hill, "the abomination's returned."

Bethany redirected her glare from Hawke to Fenris, before stomping her foot. "I'm telling mother when we get back to Kirkwall."

She shouldered past Anders and started a fast march back down Sundermount. Hawke grimaced.

"Afraid of your mother, Hawke?" Anders raised an eyebrow. "And she's such a sweet lady, too."

"Trust me, it's all an act. The second you're out of sight she turns into a high dragon. It's terribly awkward to keep having to replace the roof."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Anders shook his head, "Bethany! Can you believe what Hawke is saying about your mother?"

"Did he call her a high dragon?" Bethany shouted back. She was a good thirty feet in front of them, but her voice carried easily up the rocky path.

"Ah, yes!" Anders shot Hawke a confused look.

"He's right! It's really annoying to fix the roof!"

"See?"

"I will never understand siblings." Anders rubbed his forehead.

Fenris spoke up. "I've noticed your sister calls you Hawke."

"Hm?" Hawke twisted around to look at Fenris. He was lagging behind them, just slightly, due to a bound cut along the top of his thigh that he refused to let Anders touch. To be honest, it was probably a good thing, because Hawke had the sinking suspicion that Anders would have refused to heal it. _That_ was something he needed to address, sooner rather than later; he just had no idea how to do it. "Yes, she does. My mother does, too. Why?"

"I just thought it odd. They are Hawkes as well, are they not? Why not use your given name?"

"It's a bit of a silly story. Ah, we were near Ostagar, in this little farming village. Oh, I must have been about ten, so Bethany and Carver were still babies. Anyways, there was another Garrett who lived there."

"That's a little strange. Isn't Garrett a Marcher name?" Anders said.

Hawke nodded. "It is. I never really asked him about it; he was a horrible little snot. I hated that brat. We got into so many fights, and it was never clear who was being yelled at. I became 'that Hawke boy', and eventually, just 'Hawke'."

"Why did the other Garrett keep his name?" Fenris hobbled faster for a few steps to keep pace with them.

"Well, his surname was 'Cheeseman', which, any way you look at it, is a cruel thing to do to a child."

Anders burst out laughing, and even Fenris seemed affected by the good humor, allowing his impassive face to crack into a hesitant smile.

"Cheeseman? Are you serious?" Anders wheezed, then swallowed his laughter, "I think you're having us, Hawke."

"Having you? Trying to invite yourself over for dinner now, are you Anders?" Hawke smiled wryly. "If you want to see my mother turn into a dragon that badly, you could just curse in front of her. And yes, I'm entirely serious. His grandfather made cheeses. His father lived off the cheese empire."

"And I suppose little Garrett Cheeseman was heir to the cheese throne. Can't imagine it smelled too good."

"Eugh, don't remind me," Hawke waved his hand in front of his nose, "every time we fought, I went home smelling like old socks."

They lapsed into a somewhat comfortable silence, Fenris clearly too busy with his leg to pick a fight with Anders, and Anders with trying to pretend he wasn't at least a little dizzy from all the spells he had been throwing around.

"You don't talk about your childhood much, Hawke." Fenris said, over the sound of the wind rolling down the mountain. It smelled green here, with that rich undertone of turned dirt and clouds near to bursting with rain. Hawke took a deep breath. There was no good air like this in the city.

"That's because it was boring." At Anders and Fenris' twin disbelieving looks he continued. "What, did you think having an apostate father was really that exciting?"

"I only assumed…"

"I had plenty of excitement as an apostate."

"Yes," Hawke rolled his shoulders back, "I'm sure a married man with children had exactly the same kind of excitement you had. Isn't it gorgeous up here? The Maker must have spent extra time when He made Sundermount."

He looked back. Both men had paused, and were glaring at him. "What?"

"Spent extra time filling it with bandits and mud, maybe," Ander picked up the hem of his robe, "guh, look at this."

"Call it a souvenir—genuine mud, all the way from Sundermount. Come on, Anders, a little dirt never hurt anyone."

"That's only because you've never seen a septic infection. I guess the rumors about Fereldan cuisine are true."

"Well, a balanced meal isn't complete without a healthy serving of dirt. Fenris, what do _you_ think about this place? I mean, look at it."

Hawke swept his arm out over the southern side of the mountain. The sun hung lazily in the sky, blurred and softened by a smothering layer of clouds. Farmland stretched from the base of the mountain to Kirkwall—tiny squares of growing things. If Hawke squinted, he could pretend that he could pick out the crops by color: a bit of yellow for squash, deep greens for spinach, its lighter cousin was cabbage. The root vegetables were a touch harder, of course, but the tangled stalks dotted with pale blue blossoms could have been potatoes. Beyond that, the city sat, gleaming sandstone and bronze.

And then the ocean. Hawke could see what Isabela had fallen in love with—the water glittering like some deep gem, and the endless miles of freedom.

"I'm not exactly enraptured by forests."

Hawke's face fell. "What? No good sense, either of you. Didn't Tevinter have trees?

"Not really. Minrathous was a white city—marble, I think. And the land around it was mined for lyrium. They burned coal, not wood."

"It's supposed to be warm there, isn't it?" Anders asked, his usual ill-temper regarding Fenris lifted in favor of learning about the new and exotic.

"The city was stifling. And wretched. It smelled like disease and blood." He considered for a moment, and added. "And incense."

"Incense?" Hawke tilted his head. "Like in the chantry?"

"Similar. Everyone burned it to cover the smell."

"And I thought Kirkwall was bad," Anders said, "Lowtown doesn't exactly smell like roses, either."

"With you in it, I imagine it does not."

"What about you, Anders," Hawke stepped between them before a fight could break out, "What was it like… wherever it is you're from?"

Anders shrugged. "One circle is pretty much the same as the rest. No vistas or epidemics, I'm afraid."

He was clearly trying to avoid whatever discussion lie in the 'where did you come from?' direction, so Hawke let it go. No need to bring up something painful. He did enough of that on accident, and his mouth only had room for so many feet.

"Vistas indeed. Maybe we should stay long enough to catch the sunset?"

"No!"

Hawke laughed and slung an arm over each of their shoulders. "You two are more alike than you think."

Then, Fenris punched him, and Anders jabbed his still tender hand.

"Something I said?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris awoke, and had his hand around his sword before his eyes were open. The door to Danarius' manor creaked open, and the heavy tread of thick soled boots echoed throughout the otherwise silent house. He was looming by the bedroom door, veins flush with lyrium and glowing like a burning thing, when he heard a clatter, and the familiar cadence of Hawke cursing the furniture.

He exhaled, and the lyrium faded to its usual discrete smolder. Then, he tossed his sword into the ragged armchair in which he had been sleeping, and tossed himself onto the moldering mattress in the far corner of the room. He let Hawke do as he pleased; even with his habit of breaking into every room that wasn't locked and most of the ones that were, he would respect Fenris' non-presence, and let him continue to pretend to sleep. Besides, he wasn't strong enough to move the ironwood bench Fenris shoved in front of the door every night.

Now that Fenris was awake, he couldn't return to the blissful nothing of sleep; not that Hawke made it easy for him. For a man as skilled in combat as he was, he was certainly a klutz. Fenris quietly suspected it was entirely an act, put on to disarm and placate. A bumbling oaf was certainly less threatening than a skilled mercenary, or whatever it was Hawke had been in his previous life.

Fenris rolled over, rucking the blankets loosely around him. It wasn't sleep, and it certainly wasn't empty, but lying awake staring at the peeling wallpaper had its charms.

There was a crash downstairs.

"Fenris!" Hawke sounded nervous, which was unlike him, unless he was currently being cornered by a dragon. Or his mother. Fenris pulled himself out of bed, quickly, quietly, and efficiently. He spared a second to sneer at himself before grabbing his sword.

"Hawke?" He descended the stupidly lavish stairs, one hand curled loosely around the hilt.

"Kitchen!" Hawke swallowed a nervous laugh. "Did you know you had mice?"

"Of course I have mice," Fenris entered the kitchen, "it's—Hawke?"

Hawke looked down at him, and shuffled his feet nervously. He was crouched, _cowering_ on the only table that wasn't cut to battered pieces. A beady-eyed mouse scampered across the floor beneath him. It darted for the open door behind Fenris, careening wildly over his bare toes. He absentmindedly bent down and plucked it off the ground, holding it by the scruff. There was a basket of fresh vegetables and bread scattered across the floor, probably Leandra buying food for him and pretending she didn't have space to keep it. Her pity annoyed him, but he was too practical to turn down a free meal. Besides, he'd just throw it away when it rotted.

"Should I ask?" He said, brow raised.

"Oh, I don't know," Hawke crawled to the edge of the table, peering nervously over the side, "how much of my dignity do you think I've got left?"

"I think it depends on how many mice are hiding in the cupboards."

"Ha. Haha. He's so funny." Hawke sounded practically hysterical. How could someone face down a Tal-Vashoth suicide charge without flinching and then be reduced to panic by _mice_? His eyes lighted on the mouse Fenris was holding.

"Oh, Andraste," he gulped and squeezed his eyes shut, "put it somewhere else. _Please_."

"It's a mouse, Hawke."

"You don't need to _remind_ me!'

Fenris put his sword on one of the empty tables—out of reach of any panicked, clumsy men—and looked around.

"I'm just going to kill it then."

"What?" Hawke's eyes snapped open and he groaned. "Oh, don't do _that_."

"What?" Fenris furrowed his brow. He'd been doing that a lot since meeting Hawke. "Why?"

"I can't stand the little shrieks. Please, Fenris."

"Alright, then I'll go into the other room and do it." He turned to leave.

"Just put it outside, please?" There was a certain lilt, a certain desperation, to Hawke's voice.

"Fine." Fenris crossed the room and headed down the servant's entrance. It let out around the back of the manor, into a desiccated garden. Fenris tossed the mouse on the ground, and watched it scamper into the bushes. He stayed outside long enough to squelch his irritation with Hawke, then dusted off his hands and went back inside.

Hawke was sitting on the edge of the table, his legs dangling cautiously over the side. He rubbed his face and looked up guiltily when he caught sight of Fenris.

"I hate to kill them."

"Hawke, you've killed dozens of people. Why does a dead mouse bother you?"

"Usually those people are trying to kill _me_ , Fenris. I have less of a moral compunction about not dying."

"Death is death. It doesn't matter if there was a reason for it."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Not really." He could excuse himself by claiming that Danarius had long since trained any moral scruples out of him, but there was no point to it.

Hawke frowned, and finally lowered himself to the floor. "Guh. I hate mice. I hate rodents in general, really. Mice, rats—I twisted an ankle running from a squirrel once. Carver never let me live that down." His face took on an odd twist whenever he spoke about his dead brother, but he shook himself out of it.

"Any sort of…" Fenris searched for the word, "story behind this?"

"Nope. I just can't stand their eyes." He crouched and started picking up the scattered food from his basket.

Fenris snorted. "Don't go to the bloodmage's then. Her house is full of them."

"You visit Merrill? I thought you couldn't stand her."

"I can't. She keeps leaving things on my doorstep, and saddles me with returning them to her."

Hawke looked at him. "You sure they aren't housewarming gifts?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure the bloodmage is leaving her spare tunics on my porch as a housewarming gift. I've been here for three years, Hawke. It's far past time for 'housewarming'."

Hawke boggled. "What?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Is this… some sort of," Hawke flapped his hand, "elf… _thing_? Should I tell my mother so she can start planning the wedding?"

"The Dalish have bonding ceremonies. And no. Please don't."

"Ah, she'll be so disappointed."

Fenris huffed a laugh, and glanced off to the side. "No, I don't know what she's trying to do. Force a conversation, perhaps? I've been stuffing her tunics through the holes in her roof."

"I never knew you were so avoidant."

"I'm sure you can understand my wanting to not spend time around a bloodmage."

Hawke held up a hand, halting him. "I'm not in the mood to argue. But, ah, have you considered not returning them? I mean, the best way to keep you two from arguing is to never put you in the same city block. I'd have assumed you just wouldn't bother making nice."

Fenris didn't want to admit it was mostly obligation that drove his actions, so he opted for the absurd reason. "What would I do with them? They're not my size."

Hawke laughed. "Fair enough. Do you think it could be something else?"

Fenris raised a brow.

"Oh, well, you _are_ the only other elf she really knows. The elves at the alienage don't really like her—someone spread rumors about the blood magic—"

"Rightfully so."

"—and," Hawke continued, speaking over him, "she seems lonely. Maybe she wants to, I don't know, connect."

"I'd rather she didn't. I'm not Dalish. I'm not even a city elf. She doesn't want to talk to a 'Vint. And I'd rather not talk to a mage."

"I can't imagine your personality helps either." Hawke grinned when Fenris looked up at him, and held up the basket of food. "Mother bought too much, and we don't have room to store it. Want some?"

Fenris' lip curled. No, he did not. But he would take it, spurred by what little good sense he still had.

"Your mother needs to learn how big her kitchen is."

Hawke's grin faltered. Fenris tried to stem the surge of guilt swelling in his chest.

"Well, then?" he said instead, turning away and pretending to inspect his sword. "Put it where you want."

Hawke exhaled slightly and started unpacking the food. "You know, if I see another mouse, I'm just going to start screaming again."

"I suppose I ought to open the cabinets for you; tell you if you should get back on the table."

"Oh, I dunno, Fenris. Are you sure you can reach?"

"I'm throwing the first mouse I find your way."

Hawke whimpered.

"I'm joking, Hawke."

"You couldn't say that when Varric's around?" Hawke bemoaned, stuffing a fat loaf of sourdough in the breadbox. "I've got five coppers riding on the existence of your sense of humor."

"Five coppers. I'm flattered." It was easy to fall into this lighthearted banter—Hawke made it easy. He had a decent wit under his good-nature, and Fenris didn't feel… obliged to keep talking. Conversations with Hawke were not so much the words being said, but the in-between of the words, the silence and pauses. Quiet felt comfortable with Hawke.

That could be romantic, he supposed, but it felt more like having a friend. That wasn't too terrible a thought, falling in… _this feeling_ with a friend.

Fenris snorted.

"Yes?" Hawke looked up from where he was sorting potatoes by size. "Did you say something?"

"No." Just a moment of foolishness. "I'm going to take these to the root cellar."

He grabbed the basket—full of leafy green things he couldn't name—and shouldered open the door. The cool stone was rough, even against his calloused feet, and seemed to leech the heat out of him. He shoved the basket haphazardly onto one of the shelves and glared at the wall. There were mice and roaches everywhere—height didn't deter them. It didn't matter, really. He had an elf's innate slow appetite coupled with a lifetime of intermittent starvation. Food was rarely a concern, and animals didn't go after wine.

Love. A stupid word, and the wrong word for it, too. He just… didn't know what the right one was. Lust was too base, and infatuation too saccharine. Damn Hawke for inspiring this, and damn himself for feeling it.

At least he had the always comforting allure of self-pity to distract him from himself.

"You know," Hawke said when he came back into the kitchen, either too oblivious or too canny to comment on the glacial speed at which he sorted vegetables, "you ought to get a cat. A good mouser could clear this place out for you."

"I thought you didn't want to kill them."

"An animal hunting for prey isn't the same as me stepping on a mouse because it scared me."

"Hn."

"There's this tabby stray around Anders' clinic—he keeps putting out scraps for them—who just had kittens."

"I thought cats hid for that?"

"Ah, well," Hawke said, "she decided that Anders' pillow was a good hiding place. Bit of a shock for him. Merrill told me she heard him screeching all the way in the alienage."

Fenris smirked, perhaps a bit cruely.

"See," Hawke wagged a finger, "I thought you'd find that funny. Ah, anyways, once they're weaned, I can ask for one, for you."

"You want me to get a pet?"

"Well, a working animal isn't really a pet—"

"Is that why your wardog steals your bed all the time?"

"She's tired and she needs someplace to sleep, _Fenris_." Hawke paused and frowned. "How do you know about that?"

"You complain about it constantly, Hawke."

"Complain about my mabari? What kind of monster do you take me for?"

"The kind who fights bandits covered in dog hair."

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "Am I the one covered in dog hair, or are the bandits?"

"You both are, once the dog has tackled them."

Hawke chuckled at that, wiping his fingers off on his trousers. He finished packing the rest of the food away, where the mice would no doubt feast on it the second he turned his back. He turned back towards Fenris, and his face went a bit solemn.

"Say, Fenris…"

"Yes?"

Whatever Hawke wanted to say clearly wasn't in favor of being forged out of his gaping mouth, so he cut through the ambivalence on his face and replaced it with a static grin. "Aveline and I were planning on scouting around the wounded coast for some Tal-Vashoth. We probably won't find anything—it's just rumors and all—but you're welcome to tag along if you like."

"Yes," Fenris nodded, "I think I'd like that."

Leave it there, leave it be. Fenris was an honest man, and he knew when he was avoiding things.

"I'd like that very much."

And when he wasn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Killers' Mr. Brightside.
> 
> One of the things that bothered me about DA2 (out of many) was how brief the romances are. You basically had three conversations to woo your companion of choice, and that was it. I thought DA1's design, where you have to make camp and take a break to talk to everyone felt much more natural, and it gave you more of a chance to get to know the characters, so to speak. Anywho, here's me correcting for that.


End file.
